Personal Blogs

Kindness Revealed by Cancer

One of the quiet revelations of a terminal cancer diagnosis is how it rearranges the way people see you , and how they behave. Those once distant or distracted often disclose a hidden gentleness, as if some curtain has been pulled back and a softer light now fills the room.

Hormone therapy, designed to build a barricade around the disease, carries its own peculiar burdens: flashes of irritation, forgetfulness that blurs the edges of thought, intrusive reflections that won’t be stilled, and a bone-deep laziness born of a body waging war with itself. A strange “why bother?” attitude can settle in, uninvited.

And yet, even as the body falters, the world around begins to hum to a different rhythm. Doctor’s surgeries, hospital corridors, consulting rooms, even casual encounters on the street, seem to shift into a gentler register, as if an unseen conductor had raised his baton and signalled a new movement. Life, unchanged in its structure, suddenly breathes with grace.

Strangers offer more of themselves than expected. Acquaintances once on the periphery step forward with unwavering loyalty. Professionals who might once have hurried through their routines pause, listen, and offer more than mere duty. The world, in all its ordinariness, takes on a tender hue.

Of course, not everyone changes. Some glide through life as if behind glass, fixed on their own path, unmoved by the suffering of others. But perhaps they serve a purpose too, their indifference sets the stage on which kindness shines more brightly. The fabric of the world is no different; it is our awareness that deepens, revealing compassion woven invisibly into its threads.

A terminal diagnosis, then, is not only a herald of fear or sadness. It is also a vantage point granted to few — a place from which we see life as it truly is: selfish and luminous, flawed and astonishingly kind, brutal and breathtakingly beautiful.

“What a person desires is unfailing love.” — Proverbs 19:22 (NIV)

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Is There an Evil Presence in Your Life?

There are seasons in life when we sense, like a chilly wind slipping under the door, that an evil presence is near. It may not come with horns or pitchforks, but it wears a human face, sometimes one that was once familiar. It might be someone we grew up with, someone we loved, or someone who once stood close beside us. Yet beneath their charm lies something darker: a manipulative nature, an unforgiving heart, a taste for vengeance, and a chilling absence of empathy. They lie without shame, slander without hesitation, and delight in seeing wounds that never heal. Jorden Peterson mentioned that "You invite spirits to posses you when you dwell on your rage." Wether literaly or metaphoricaly, the end result is the same, an evil chill is there.

We try to distance ourselves, to build boundaries and reclaim peace, but their presence lingers like smoke in the air. Even after we shut the door, they plot behind it. Even when we walk away, their shadow seems to follow. And the question arises from somewhere deep inside: What can we do?

Psychologists tell us about that people with sociopathic traits are often masters of deception. They wear masks so convincingly that others see them as charming, trustworthy, even admirable. That thought is sobering. Evil does not always shout. It often whispers. And it rarely announces itself as evil.

The Bible is unflinchingly honest about such realities. It tells us that “Satan masquerades as an angel of light” (2 Corinthians 11:14) and warns us to be “sober-minded and watchful” because “your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). Evil’s most effective disguise is often righteousness itself. Like Judas among the disciples, those intent on harm can walk beside goodness and still betray it.

Throughout Scripture, faithful servants of God faced malicious people who schemed against them. David, hounded by Saul’s jealousy and betrayal, poured out his anguish in the Psalms:

“Deliver me from my enemies, O my God; protect me from those who revolt against me. Deliver me from those who work evil and save me from bloodthirsty men.”
— Psalm 59:1–2

David did more than cry out — he entrusted his situation to God. That is the turning point in all such battles. Evil wants us consumed with fear and bitterness, but faith calls us higher. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” he writes elsewhere. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1).

The psychologist Carl Jung observed that “one does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” To deal with evil, we must first recognise it for what it is. Denial is dangerous. Naming it, calling manipulation, vengeance is the first act of reclaiming power.

But recognition is not enough. The second act is release. We do not have to carry their darkness inside us. We do not have to let their malice define the boundaries of our lives. That is why forgiveness, though difficult, is not weakness but liberation.

Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation with someone who continues to harm. It does not mean pretending their evil does not exist. It means handing over the burden of vengeance to God — “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19) — and choosing not to let their hatred colonise our hearts.

There is, too, the quiet wisdom of common sense. Evil thrives in secrecy and silence. When we speak honestly to trusted people, seek counsel, and do not isolate ourselves, its power diminishes. Setting firm boundaries, seeking professional help if needed, and building a circle of genuine, loving people are not acts of fear but of faith.

We turn our gaze toward the One whose presence is stronger than any evil presence we may face. “The light shines in the darkness,” John writes, “and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). Even in the shadow of betrayal or slander, there is a greater light — and in that light, no darkness can remain for long. The darkness may prowl and whisper, but it will not prevail. Not when you stand in the light.

The Writing Life: A Story From a Word

John Koenig, in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, gave a name to a feeling I’ve carried for years without knowing it had one: kenopsia — “the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.” It is the echo that lingers after a crowd has gone home, the stillness of a fairground stripped of its music, the hollow air of a derelict school once filled with shouts and chalk dust. And the sad, melancholy feeling when observing documentaries filmed in Chernobyl or the underwater filming of the Titanic.

I know that feeling well. I meet it every time I take the ferry across to Rothesay and walk the stretch of land between Bogany Farm and Canada Hill. Once, this place was alive: fifty or sixty cabins scattered like little wooden boats moored on the green, a harbour for those of us who needed an escape from the city’s hard edges. It was nothing grand, just a handful of huts and a strip of distant shoreline, but to us it was a world apart.

Evenings then were stitched together with barbeque, song, burnt toast, and smoke. Campfires flickering under the slow-turning stars, voices rising in unison to the songs of the day, the scent of wheat and barns hanging in the air. Children ran barefoot through the grass, their laughter spilling into the sea breeze, while adults leaned back in deckchairs, faces tilted towards the sun as if storing its warmth for the cold months ahead.

Memory is a generous painter. It smooths and gilds, washes everything in the soft glow of once. Like a Potemkin Village, hides the reality. And in that glow, people seemed gentler, lighter, closer to the best of themselves. Perhaps it was the rare gift of unhurried time, or the way the sea loosened the knots of worry. Or the place itself invited kindness, as if the salt wind whispered, you can breathe here. You can be human here.

Now, when I return, the cabins are gone. The field is overgrown, nettles shouldering their way through what was once a path. The songs have fallen silent; the laughter has retreated into the soil. I walk through the meadow and cows stare at me as if I’m an imposter and they have a history on this meadow. I feel like a ghost in my own story, trespassing in a memory too fragile to touch. Kenopsia seeps from the earth like a scent, not emptiness, but the faint outline of presence, a whisper of all that once was.

Robert Macfarlane wrote that “landscape is not a backdrop for human drama, but a participant in it.” Standing there, I know this to be true. The land remembers. It remembers the clatter of cutlery from picnic tables, the hiss of sausages over a smoky fire, the hush of whispered promises under a summer moon. It remembers us — the ordinary people who once turned this patch of ground into a temporary kingdom of joy.

Such places ache because they remind us that time is both thief and gift. They show us what we’ve lost, but also what we once had and how deeply it mattered. The meadow between Bogany Farm and Canada Hill is no longer a holiday haven. Yet in walking it, I walk back into my own boyhood, into a world where joy was simpler and people seemed, if only for a moment, to rise into the best version of themselves.

Perhaps that is the strange mercy of kenopsia: that it is not simply emptiness but memory’s afterglow. It is the ghost light left on in the theatre after the play is over — a small, stubborn flame that says, something beautiful happened here.

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Where Geese Cry South: On the Loss of a Son

I was out for a walk one night this week. Near where I live there’s a pleasant circular route that eventually takes me past the graveyard. It was dusk, and the high, plaintive squeaking of geese migrating south reminded me that the frost was creeping in.

Unexpectedly, I came across a woman sitting on a chair at her son’s grave. He died in a fatal accident earlier this year; he was just eighteen. I spent a few moments with her, offering a few words of empathy, yet feeling more inadequate than I have ever felt. How can I possibly understand — let alone comfort — a woman who has lost the child she once held to her breast?

As I walked on, the encounter stayed with me and sent my thoughts along a different path. I noticed the objects people leave on graves: golf balls, figurines, baby photos, small toys. I suppose it’s all about identity; the need to say, this is who they were. That’s why favourite music is so often played at funerals. Earlier this year, someone left a comment on my blog saying that two Runrig songs were to be played at his funeral.

I once read about an ancient grave discovered on a building site in the Czech Republic. A man lay buried there, and beside him was a puppet on a string. I often think about him and how he must have brought joy and laughter to children and adults alike, even if only for a short time in this challenging life. And I wonder: what would identify me?

When I was doing my MA in writing, a tutor once asked us to write about something that reflected our identity. For me, it was my writer’s notebook. It’s where I write about my feelings toward being human; the deepest way anyone will ever see into my soul. What you’re reading now is part of that. Like the man with the puppet on a string, I too try to entertain — though in an existential way — by focusing on what is positive and good about human nature. And I suppose, if you’re reading this, you’re walking with me on that path.

But my thoughts return to that woman sitting alone at her son’s grave. What comfort is there for her? I have lost loved ones, but I know that offering hope to someone whose wound is still fresh, especially the loss of a child,  rarely helps. They don’t want promises of future healing; they want comfort now.

The best thing, I think, is to invite the memories that still bring joy. Ask gentle questions: “What was your son like?” “What was his happiest moment as a child?” “What did you give him for his last birthday?” “What was his favourite toy?” “Was he kind?” Let the grieving parent linger in those precious memories.

“Do not be amazed at this, for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear His voice.”
                                                           — John 5

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The Lewis Revival and the Yearning for a Better World

There has been a great deal of fascination with the Lewis Revival over the years. Even my last blog on the subject drew 14,000 visitors over 48 hours. That number alone tells me something: the revival is not merely an event confined to the Hebrides of the mid-twentieth century, but a living symbol, a flame that still flickers in the imagination of believers and seekers alike.

Why such interest? Perhaps it is because the Lewis Revival suggests something beyond the ordinary—that thin place where the metaphysical touches the real, where God and Christ are palpably at work in the lives of men and women. In those moments, eternity seems to break through the veil of time.

But perhaps the hunger is also simpler, more human. Many of us who are Christians feel an ache to belong to a spiritual community that is uncluttered and sincere, where neighbours walk in step with one another, not only in daily labour but in their reverence for God. A rural community where morality is not enforced by policy but breathed in like the sea air; where love for God is not a performance but the pulse of the village.

This yearning is not unlike what C.S. Lewis described as Joy—not mere happiness, but those fleeting, piercing moments when we are suddenly aware of our exile on this earth. Lewis believed that such Joy is a signpost pointing us towards another country, another kingdom, a home that is not yet but is deeply desired. When we long for revival, for purity of worship, for unvarnished faith, we are really longing for Christ’s kingdom breaking into this world.

The Lewis Revival reminds us that we are not made for endless distraction or the hollow promises of modernity. We are made for awe. The people of Lewis did not conjure revival through program or persuasion; rather, it descended, as sudden and unbidden as a storm at sea, rearranging lives in its wake. That is why it still grips our imagination. It whispers that God still moves, that heaven is not silent, that Europe—indeed, the whole world—is not beyond the touch of renewal.

More than ever, I believe we need such a revival in Europe today. A continent that once carried the torch of Christendom now seems dimmed by cynicism and forgetfulness. But what if, as in Lewis, revival was to break through again? What if amidst the ruins of our fractured societies, the Spirit were to stir hearts anew? It would not be a return to the past, but a foretaste of the Kingdom to come.

The Lewis Revival was not a quaint chapter in Scottish religious history. It was a reminder that God is not finished with us. Its echoes call us to lift our eyes from the dust of this world and remember that our truest belonging is elsewhere—in the Kingdom where love, justice, and joy will run as deeply as the peat fires of Lewis once burned in the hearths of its people.

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Misrepresented: A Christian Reflection on Migration and Compassion

“Whoever loves much, does much.– Thomas à Kempis 

You know the story of Nero who spread the rumour that it was the Christians who burned down Rome. Nothing new. I heard a brief comment on the radio this week; the kind of careless sentence that slips by in a hurry and  claiming that Christians are among those most eager to end migration to Britain. It sounded authoritative, but it was wrong. And not just wrong in detail, but wrong in spirit. It reduced a living, breathing faith to a caricature. It painted over centuries of Christian compassion with a single, broad, misleading stroke.

The truth, known to anyone who has walked beside a church community in this country, is very different. I know of no Christians who are hostile to migrants as people. Quite the opposite. Across Britain, churches quietly run food banks where hungry families — many of them newly arrived — find not just bread but dignity. Volunteers give their evenings to teach English classes in draft driven  halls. Congregations collect clothing and furniture for those starting again from nothing. Christians sit with the lonely, comfort the traumatised, and help them navigate bureaucracies that even the strong find bewildering. If that is not compassion, what is.

The recent marches in London that some commentators have hastily labelled “anti-migrant” were, in fact, driven largely by concerns over free speech and the erosion of open debate. Many Christians were there, not to close Britain’s borders but to keep its conscience awake — to insist that the freedom to speak, question, and even disagree is essential to a healthy democracy. They marched not against migrants, but against the silencing of voices — their own and others’ — in a time when labels like “hateful” or “extremist” are too easily thrown at those who simply ask difficult questions.

And there are difficult questions. No Christian is naïve about the complexities of migration. Among those seeking refuge from war and persecution, there are some who exploit the system, some who arrive with criminal intent, and some whose cultural attitudes towards women and the vulnerable clash painfully with the values we hold dear. It is not unchristian to recognise these realities. In fact, discernment — the ability to “test everything and hold fast to what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21) — is part of our calling. To ignore wrongdoing or excuse injustice is not compassion; it is negligence. A love that is blind to evil is not love at all.

But acknowledging such realities does not make Christians enemies of migrants. It makes them realists — people who believe that mercy and justice must walk hand in hand. The Christian vision is not one of unguarded borders or unthinking policies; it is one of hearts open to those in need and societies wise enough to protect the vulnerable from harm. That balance is not easy, but it is essential.

It is also worth remembering that Christianity itself is a migrant story. From Abraham leaving his homeland to follow God’s call, to Moses leading a people out of oppression, to Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with their infant son, the Scriptures are filled with journeys. Even the church’s birth was marked by scattering — apostles and disciples carrying good news across borders and continents. To follow Christ is, in many ways, to embrace movement, to live as “strangers and pilgrims on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13), seeking a better country.

That is why so many Christians feel an instinctive kinship with the displaced and the uprooted. They see Christ in the refugee who arrives with nothing but hope. They remember his words: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35). And they act on them, often without fanfare or recognition, because love is not a political slogan but a command.

It is deeply unfair, then, when Christians are painted as the architects of hostility. Such portrayals ignore the daily acts of service that define church life across Britain — the meals prepared, the donations gathered, the friendships offered without condition. They erase the countless quiet conversations where trauma is heard and healing begins. And they betray a misunderstanding of what motivates Christian concern: not hatred of the stranger, but love of truth, love of neighbour, and a longing for a society that is both welcoming and just.

We should challenge false narratives wherever they arise. They flatten the rich, complex reality of Christian engagement into something crude and cynical. And worse, they risk discouraging the very compassion they claim to champion. If those who serve are constantly told they are suspect, some may lose heart. It is better, surely, to tell the fuller story — one that honours both the kindness Christians show and the wisdom they seek.

The migration debate is not going away. It will remain a test of our values, our policies, and our hearts. But as Christians, we must not allow ourselves to be misrepresented or silenced. We must continue to welcome the stranger, to help those in need, and to speak honestly about the challenges we face. Compassion and caution are not enemies; they are partners. And when held together under the lordship of Christ, they can shape a society that protects the vulnerable without losing its soul.

The radio claim was wrong. Christians are not the ones turning their backs on the stranger. More often than not, they are the ones standing beside them — with food, with language lessons, with friendship, and with prayer. That is the story worth telling. That is the faith I know.

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The Flame That Will Not Die

 “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”  — Acts 1

It may be the most powerful prophecy in all of scripture. From a fragile band of men and women, still reeling from the death of their Teacher, would spring a commission that has rippled across centuries like concentric circles widening on a still lake. Their voices, once whispers in the backstreets of Jerusalem, now echo in every land beneath the sun.

When Jesus taught, He painted with words the way an artist works with light and shadow. He drew fishers into the kingdom with nets of story, sowed seeds of truth in soil-hardened hearts, and lifted the weary with images of lilies and sparrows. He did not lecture coldly; He set imaginations on fire. That is why I, in my own faltering way, write through story and illustration. To reach the spirit, one must first touch the heart.

When I learned to write, I made a vow to our Creator: that my words would not merely fill pages but help souls glimpse eternity. Blaise Pascal spoke of an “infinite abyss” within us, a hollow no earthly treasure can fill. There is, indeed, a God-shaped hole in every human being. Some try to cram it with gold, with pleasure, with applause and by raising themselves by putting others down, but they remain as empty as a begger’s pocket. Only the living water of God can fill it to the brim.

So, I write not to lecture but to invite—to whisper across the void in another person’s heart, “Have you considered this? Could there be more than this life?”

And the evidence humbles me. Each day, between 3,000 and 10,000 souls pass through these pages. That is not a statistic; it is a multitude of beating hearts, searching minds, and weary spirits who sense—whether faintly or fiercely—that life cannot be reduced to chance and consumption.

For decades, the West sank into a trough of indifference, lulled by the hollow lullabies of materialism. We were told that science had slain wonder, that atheism had dethroned God, that selfishness was freedom. But those songs have grown thin. Their melodies are brittle, like cracked shells that cannot protect the life within. And so, quietly but unmistakably, people are stirring. They are climbing out of the doldrums, lifting their faces toward the light again, asking questions that pierce through cynicism.

Yet even as this awakening begins, Christianity faces storms—persecution abroad, apathy at home, and the shallow shadow of nominal faith that leaves no imprint on a life. But the same Spirit who breathed fire into fearful fishers still moves. The flame is not out; it only waits for willing hearts to carry it forward, as it has done from that first upper room to the ends of the earth.

Trust 

“Mouths don’t empty themselves unless ears are sympathetic and knowing.”

Zora Neale Hurston’s words strike at the heart of trust. They remind me that speaking is not merely the act of moving the lips but of revealing the soul. To speak honestly, we need to believe the listener is kind, attentive, and free of malice. Without that trust, silence feels safer.

There are few people I trust. I withdraw from those who gossip, stir up strife, or fabricate stories. Words used recklessly wound the spirit and poison the atmosphere. I’ve also learned to distance myself from those who go through life in a minor key, whose cynicism and bitterness drag down others. Such company clouds the mind and burdens the heart.

I remember one day walking with a friend. The sea was calm, the gulls floating in the air as though suspended by invisible threads. Something about that quiet morning, the steady rhythm of our steps, and the absence of judgment in his presence made me speak of a grief I had carried for years. I had not intended to, but the words came, almost surprising myself. His silence was not empty but attentive; a sympathetic ear that allowed the mouth to empty itself. I walked home lighter that day, reminded that trust, when given wisely, is like setting down a heavy stone.

Of course, this guardedness sometimes makes people feel rejected. Withdrawal is easily misunderstood, and those who feel left out may turn their hurt into anger. But I cannot live at the mercy of every reaction. I would rather walk the quiet road of Psalm 1:

“Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked
or stand in the way of sinners
or sit in the seat of mockers.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law he meditates day and night.”

The psalmist points to a pathway of rootedness; a life nourished by trust in God rather than the shifting soil of human chatter. To delight in God’s law is to rest in His wisdom, to trust that His ear is always sympathetic and knowing, even when human ears are not.

Trust, then, becomes a sacred choice. I give it sparingly, not out of bitterness, but out of discernment. I want to place my words in the care of those who will not trample them but treasure them. To share myself fully is a gift, and gifts deserve reverent hands.

So, I keep company with the psalmist and with those rare few who listen well. For in the presence of a truly sympathetic ear, the mouth empties its burdens, the soul feels lighter, and trust finds a home.

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Over the Gobi at Dusk

Somewhere between Manila and Amsterdam, the plane slipped into evening and crossed the Gobi Desert. I stared down for more than an hour and still we had not passed it. Below stretched a vastness that seemed unending, an ocean of earth in ochres and greys, ridges and plains brushed by the last light of day. From above it appeared empty, yet I could not help but wonder about the lives being lived down there.

I thought of families in their gers, the round felt dwellings scattered like white shells across the land. I imagined them gathered around a stove as the cold pressed in, sharing food, telling stories, perhaps tending to worries that were not so different from mine: the health of loved ones, the future of children, the struggle to endure. Their joys and anxieties seemed no less real for being tucked away in such remoteness.

What would silence sound like in the depth of night, broken only by the wind brushing at the canvas? To wake and hear nothing, no traffic, no hum of machines, not even the rustle of leaves. Just the stillness of creation itself. Perhaps it is in such silence that the soul becomes attuned to something greater, something that modern life has smothered.

And then, the sky. I envied them that. To look up from the dark of the Gobi and see the heavens in their fullness, a Milky Way unbroken, stars uncountable, so thick they must feel like a river flowing overhead. To live beneath such a sky each night is to live close to the infinite, to be reminded that we are small, passing, yet also deeply connected to the eternal and the creator.

As I sat in my seat high above, I found myself longing for that simplicity, that communion with earth and sky. For the desert dwellers, it is a given. For me, it was a glimpse, a yearning awakened by the view from thirty thousand feet. And whilst I envy them, they look up at me and wonder what cultures I have left and what cultures I belong to. One day, yes one day, we will hopefully meet in that grand time that Job, the Biblical character, called The Renewal.

“I wish you would hide me in the grave and forget me there until your anger has passed.

But mark your calendar to think of me again!"

Job 14:13 (TLB).

Scripture quotations taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

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“Return to me, and I will return to you”

(Zechariah 1:3).

The Silence of Europe

Europe once stood as a stronghold of Christianity. Cathedrals rose toward the sky, their bells marking the rhythm of village and city life. Faith shaped laws, customs, and imagination. Yet over time, the foundation shifted. The Enlightenment placed human reason at the centre. Science, a noble pursuit in itself, began to be treated as the only voice of truth. And today, much of Europe carries a quiet weariness; a sense of apathy toward questions of God and eternity.

Some ask: is this God’s punishment? Scripture shows that when people forget Him, they often reap the fruit of their choices. Ancient Israel’s history bears witness to this cycle: when they turned away, they lost their bearings. But Jesus Himself warned against seeing every tragedy or decline as a direct judgment. He pointed instead to repentance, to the need for hearts to return to God (Luke 13:1–5).

The Enlightenment was not without light. It opened doors to learning, discovery, and freedom of thought. But when reason was enthroned as the only authority, something essential was lost. The soul cannot live on knowledge alone. The result, across centuries, has been a kind of spiritual thinning, people no longer hostile to God, but indifferent. Churches stand empty not because people are asking too many questions, but because they have stopped seeking deeper answers.

Perhaps what we see is not punishment so much as consequence. A culture built on sand eventually feels the ground shift (Matthew 7:26–27). Without God, even the richest civilization grows weary. Europe’s struggles with loneliness, restlessness, and disillusionment may simply reflect that absence.

And yet, decline is not the end of the story. Throughout Scripture, God always preserves a remnant. Renewal often begins quietly, at the margins—in small communities, in the faith of the young, in the prayers of the unseen. Europe once sent missionaries to the world; today, missionaries from other continents return to her shores, reminding us that God’s Spirit is not bound by geography.

If Europe is weary, it may be because God is gently inviting her back. The stillness in her cathedrals might yet become the ground for a new song. For His promise endures: “Return to me, and I will return to you” (Zechariah 1:3).

The silence of Europe need not be her ending. It may be the pause before renewal.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.
No one comes to the Father except through me.”
— John 14:6

Searching For Truth

More and more people today are waking up to the realization that they are, in fact, part of a cult. One common question that surfaces is: “But what about all the good things my group does?” The truth is that people rarely join a cult because of its shadows; they are drawn in by the warmth it seems to radiate. Yet those who share that warmth often don’t see that they themselves are still in need of light.

This is what makes cults so deceptive: they often cloak themselves in good works and community spirit. From the outside, the word cult might bring to mind secretive rituals, wild beliefs, or extreme fanaticism. But in reality, most operate quietly, presenting themselves as legitimate movements that promise hope, belonging, or answers to life’s deepest questions.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you might be in a cult, it usually begins with a subtle unease—an inner sense that something isn’t quite right. The process of recognition starts when you allow yourself to ask tough questions about the group’s teachings, its leaders, and the degree of freedom you actually have. Beware, if a naked man offers you a shirt as the expression goes.

At the centre of almost every cult is absolute authority. Leaders claim to hold exclusive truths, beyond question or challenge. If raising doubts is met with fear, punishment, or rejection, that’s a sign of unhealthy control. In contrast, healthy communities encourage dialogue, accountability, and independent thought.

Another warning sign is isolation. Cults often create an “us versus them” mindset, where outsiders are portrayed as threats. Over time, members are urged to distance themselves from family and friends, until the group becomes the only source of emotional, social, and even financial support.

Then there are the demands. Many cults expect heavy sacrifices of time, money, and personal energy, always placing the group’s needs above your own. This may extend into the control of emotions, too. Fear, shame, and guilt are wielded to keep members in line. Leaving is often painted as betrayal—bringing divine punishment, public shaming, or the loss of your entire community.

Exclusivity of truth is another hallmark. Cults insist they alone possess the path to salvation, enlightenment, or fulfilment. All other viewpoints are dismissed as dangerous, and independent thinking is stifled.

At first, the control may be subtle. Many groups use love bombing—lavishing newcomers with attention, praise, and acceptance to draw them in. But as time passes, warmth can turn cold. Public humiliation, shunning, or harsh criticism are used to enforce compliance, and those who leave are often vilified.

Secrecy plays a role as well. Financial dealings, leadership decisions, or inner teachings are often hidden until a member is deeply entangled. But genuine, trustworthy organizations are marked by openness, not secrecy.

So how can you discern the difference? Ask yourself:

• Do I feel free to walk away without fear or punishment?
• Am I encouraged to think critically, ask questions, and disagree?
• Do the leaders live by the same standards they demand of others?
• Does my involvement leave me stronger, freer, and more hopeful—or diminished?

Recognizing these patterns is not easy, especially when you’ve invested so much of yourself. But pausing to evaluate with honesty is vital. Trusted friends, family outside the group, or professional counsellors can help you see clearly. 

Above all, remember truth, life, and freedom are not found in human authority or exclusive systems—but in Christ himself to the glory of the Father.

Let’s Escape This Life for a Day

In 1999, I lived for a time in Stavanger, Norway. Most mornings, leaving Randaberg and heading into the city, I stopped at a filling station for a freshly made skolebolle—a school bun. I can still taste the custard, coconut, and sweetness. I miss them still.

Sometimes, in the private cinema of my imagination, I step into a time machine and escape this life for a single day. Don’t tell me you’ve never entertained the thought. One press of a button and I’m in a 17th-century Japanese village, mist curling like silk above the paddies, sandals shuffling across the earth. Another press and I’m wandering an Indian night market, the air alive with cumin and cardamom, the chatter of merchants and buyers weaving a living symphony. Or perhaps I’d go further still—away from humanity altogether—and find myself alone in the Rockies, a bag of skoleboller somehow beamed away while the coffee brewed. I’d pitch my tent beneath a midnight sky brimming with stars and listen to a silence so complete it feels as though the earth itself is holding its breath.

But then the dream fades. I blink, and here I am—back in Scotland on a Saturday evening. Nothing extraordinary. Just reality humming along.

And in those quiet returns, the questions arrive. What’s it all about? Why are we here at all? Are we only a passing arrangement of atoms—chance evolution—replicating ourselves until we vanish? Some are content with that explanation. I’m not. Because the world does not behave as though it’s meaningless.

Think about it. Flowers bloom in colours that surpass function. Birds sing songs more elaborate than survival requires. We, too, hunger for what is unnecessary. We write poetry. We compose music. We fall in love with paintings, with stories, with the way sunlight filters through a late-afternoon window. None of this is needed to stay alive. Yet without it, are we truly living? The unnecessary becomes essential.

And then there’s time. We grow older. Doors begin to close one by one. Torschlusspanik, the Germans call it—the panic of gates shutting as opportunities slip away. Suddenly, we cling to life with a desperation we never knew was in us. Few are ready to say, “Tomorrow is enough.” We bargain for more time, more seasons, more chances. Why? Because something deep within whispers that life ought not to end.

My sister once spoke with an old man who stood weeping at the sight of the countryside. When she asked if he was alright, he said, “I see all this beauty, and I don’t have much longer to live. But I want to stay.” His tears were the language of eternity. He wanted more not because he was greedy, but because he was human.

The writer of Ecclesiastes put it plainly: God has “set eternity in the human heart.” That single thought explains much of our restless longing. It explains why sunsets undo us, why we fear the final curtain, why we ask questions that biology cannot satisfy. It tells us that our hunger for permanence is not a flaw but a clue.

The Garden of Eden was a template for what the whole earth was meant to be. Our first parents were told to spread out and cultivate the land. Imagine it—the whole earth filled with Rockies, Japanese gardens, skoleboller, and the rich delights of every age and culture. And here is the point: with eternity in your lap, there is no need to beam about. There is no hurry. Build a boat, sail to the Orkneys, then to the Faroes, and on to Norway. Ride a horse to Stavanger. Kult! as the Norwegians say.

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
— Luke 23:43 (NIV)

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I Confess, The Addiction is Called Tsunsho

I was wandering through Waterstones on Argyle Street, Glasgow, when my eye was caught by a bookshelf I swear had never been there before. It was as though it had sprouted overnight like a mushroom after rain. And what a mushroom—an entire shelf dedicated to writers’ notebooks. Every possible shape, colour, and size. Some even masqueraded as Victorian novels, the sort you expect to smell faintly of dust and old libraries.

Naturally, I was helpless. I picked one up, then another, stroking the covers like some Victorian opium-eater handling forbidden goods. They all looked so dignified, so promising. I could almost hear them whispering: Buy me, and your great novel will practically write itself.

But here’s the rub: at home I already have a drawer full of these things. All pristine. All untouched. A silent mausoleum of ambition.

The Japanese, with their flair for naming life’s quirks, have a word for buying books and never reading them: tsundoku. It's about stacking them up so they radiate intelligence while the owner remain exactly the same.

But what of notebooks? Where’s the term for compulsively buying blank pages, as though the very act of possession might infuse you with genius? Tsundoku may be noble neglect, but my vice is more tragic. A notebook bought, and never written in, feels like adopting a pet and then refusing to feed it.

Tsunsho a neologism suggested by ChatGPT sounds as good a name for this addiction as any:

Tsunsho (積ん書) made up from 積ん (tsun) : “to pile up, accumulate” and 書 (sho) : “writing, book, document”

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